


Grey

by freak_iero



Category: Mindless Self Indulgence, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-27
Updated: 2013-04-12
Packaged: 2017-12-03 20:16:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/702203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freak_iero/pseuds/freak_iero
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Frank considers himself old. He doesn't see the colours in the world around him. They only colour he thinks is worth seeing is the colour of his beer. But can anyone change that?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Trail of Taste

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys. So this is my first fan fiction on here. Go easy on me :) still, I hope you enjoy and stick around because, trust me, this is gonna be a long ride.
> 
> Song:  
> Vanessa - Grimes

The cold, stony floor met my feet. It made me cold. I couldn't remember last night - nor did I want to. It was always the same; go out, pass out, wake up hours later with a heaving stomach. Now after all these years, it was nothing. It bared no meaning to me. Just like life itself. And as I passed over the cold floor that greeted me everyday and passed by the window, I was reminded as to just how much grey life really bared. No where was it either black or white. Life slipped in the middle: its colours could run either way. But it never made the decision for itself, no, it would pool in the centre - leaving you to attempt to run it to your chosen colour...and never quite succeeding. So it's in those dark, misty mornings that you realise how mundane life is. You notice just how quickly the colours wash away...just as quick as your childhood.

I threw my hoodie on and stepped into the frosty air, the familiar sound of ice crunching beneath my feet creeping to my ears. I began walking, hands jammed firmly in my pockets. I despised my hands being cold. I had followed this routine for a long time - it never changed. I didn't like change. Taking 7 minutes, it's a short walk to the liquor store. I kept my head down, choosing not to look around the polluted city full of grey buildings, grey smoke and grey skies. I had long since given up in trying to find the colour in things.

I lived alone in one of those grey buildings I hated so much. Occasionally, a black cat would slink its way into my place. I didn't mind. This cat was black, it wasn't grey. It knew its colours and they couldn't change. Somehow, the scruffy cat presented me with security. This animal was a dark splash on a grey canvas, not wanted yet somehow needed.

_A defining spot in an indecisive painting._

I pushed open the heavy door of the liquor store, the bell above chiming at my arrival. I trailed through the aisles of the dimly lit store - another grey I despised. It's either light or dark...not fricking flickering between the two. Pressing on, I made my way to the shelf that held the alcohol I wanted. Or needed. Grabbing a keg, I walked over to the counter, my head fixed on the floor. I knew who would be at the counter; a lad a little older than me - black, shoulder length hair. Pale, round face. I had been to the shop so many times I could practically recite the employee timetable. I placed down the keg, creating a dull clunk to accompany it. The guy pulled the cans away, scanning its barcode. "You drink a lot." I handed him a scrunched up note from the depths of my pocket, mumbling, "you talk too much."

I realised, soon after leaving the store, that that was the first time I had _willingly_ spoken to someone in a long time. This shocked me for sometime - usually I tried my best not to talk to anyone. This wasn't because I was shy or nervous but because I didn't feel the need to talk. As I walked home, I began to wonder what my family were doing. At the first opportunity I had moved away to live alone. I was never fond of my family and the feeling was mutual. So, in time, I lost contact with them. This didn't bother me much except I had lost the security a family shrouded you with. They gave you everything, you needn't have worried about anything. That's when you can see and enjoy the colours in the life around you. But as you get older and the world seems just that bit darker, those colours begin to wash away. Just like New Jersey rain down a clouded window.

I began to pick my pace up slightly - my fingers were beginning to numb as the cold infiltrated my body. Like I said, I hate my hands being cold. I opened the red, flaky door that was the entrance to my apartment. I had some trouble with the lock and my near useless hands. Slumping on the tattered couch, I stared up at the ceiling. I was met with the usual nicotine-stained surface I had a disliking for. The ceiling had been stained in such a way even before I had lived in the apartment. One thing I didn't do, surprisingly, was smoke. I had seen so many relatives die from forever sucking on those cancer sticks. You may as well go and sit in a fire - it's essentially the same concept...inhaling smoke and killing yourself.

I had noticed, somewhat recently, that I had began to think a lot more...unlike before where I would go about my day on auto-pilot, following the same routine. Now I was beginning to question and contradict myself. I didn't like it. I hated thinking, it brought back stupid memories I had wished to forget. It also gave me a desire to _do something_ instead of drinking my days and feelings away. The concept as a whole scared me. I had never done something in my life...besides, being 23,

_Wasn't it too late to try?_


	2. Introductions and Intoxicants

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. Finally.
> 
> Song:  
> And The Snakes Start To Sing - Bring Me The Horizon.

 

_Wasn't it too late to try?_

I pondered this for a while before developing a headache. I stretched down to the keg of beer I had bought and pulled one of the cold cans away. I cracked it open, the familiar sound soothing me. I liked drinking. I also hated it. The intoxicant and I had a long term, love-hate relationship that I couldn't and didn't want to escape.

Drinking allowed me to see the colours in my surroundings, or at least blur my vision so I couldn't see any of it. I knew that if I started drinking again I wouldn't stop. I went through the same thought pattern every night. I had the mentality to stop abusing my body so much but I didn't act on it. I  _couldn't act on it._ Drinking was an escape - it took me away to somewhere other than where I was. It made everything so much brighter. I sighed heavily as the icy liquid trailed down my throat, numbing my insides for once. I drank can after can, each container blurring my vision further.

It was at that point that I decided to go for a walk.

I wasn't quite sure why, but for once, I wanted to clear my head. For once, I didn't want to pass out and wake up with a heaving stomach. I once again pulled on my dirty, black hoodie and walked out, with just a minor stumble. The biting cold air hit me like a slap to the face. It was nice. _Refreshing._ The night was always my favourite time - it meant that barely anyone was around. It also meant that I wasn't forced to see all the pathetic grey shades in my small world. My black hair whipped across my face as the relentless wind whirled around me. Licking pointlessly around my lip ring, I noticed that my lips were already cracked and dry. I sighed out heavily, creating that common, white cloud in the air. I didn't like it. It reminded me of smoking. 

I meandered my way aimlessly down the path. I decided to leave the path, heading to the children's park. I knew no one would be there, and that idea comforted me. I could feel my toes becoming numb from the temperature - I wasn't bothered...at least it wasn't my hands that were suffering.

I arrived minutes later to the park. I had only been here once as a kid; I didn't go out often as a child. I sat down on the bench and took in my surroundings: Not a sorry soul in sight. The area was scarcely lit by one lamppost emitting an orange glow. I decided to go on the swing. I wasn't sure why...there's just something so enticing about a swing. Something so intriguing that you can't possibly just watch the seat sway ever so slightly in the wind, but have to experience it first-hand. I sat down tentatively on the freezing seat of the toy. It was slightly damp and certainly a tight squeeze for my adult body. But I was on and wasted no time in building momentum to swing. 

And that I did. And for once, I felt high without the help of drugs. I felt in control. I controlled the swing; how high it went, how low, how high, how slow. I wasn't even worried about my hands and how cold they were becoming from gripping the rusting chain of the child's toy. And for the first time in so long, I _smiled._

Slowing down my movements slightly, I looked over to the bench I had previously been on. My shoes skidded to a halt on the gravel beneath me as I kept a tight grip on the chains supporting me. There, on the bench, was a figure. More than anything, I wanted to run away and forget everything I had done in the past few minutes. Forget that the whole time I was on my swing, someone was watching. I also wanted to forget that I knew who this figure was.

"I like to swing too."

His voice pierced the darkness. It couldn't be secreted that this guy was the same person from the liquor store. I gripped the swing as if it would offer me some sort of protection from him. Twice in one day this man had tried to strike up a conversation with me...I wouldn't give him the satisfaction. There was something about him, however, that intrigued me.

There wasn't a grey to him.

His skin was as pale as the snow that had began to fall around us - his matted hair was as black as the cat that would visit me occasionally, his clothes the same inky black. _But no grey._ To put him in the same shades of grey as the rest of the residents of New Jersey would be an insult. The guy now casually leaned against the lone lamppost occupying the space next to the bench. I left the safety of my swing and cautiously paced forward to him. Upon closer inspection, I could see that he had green eyes, splintered with brown flecks. Similar to my own. He held a pink tinge across his almost chubby face: an effect of the cold.

I expected him to walk away, no-one had ever stayed in my presence for so long. It made me feel slightly uncomfortable to know that he was so confident. Instead of talking to me further, however, he ventured past me to the swing. I watched as he did so. Sure enough, he began to swing. _Up and down. Up and down._ I wondered if I should just leave - leave this guy to enjoy himself...but there was this air to him. Something telling me he didn't want to be alone, so I sat down on the bench under the lamppost and watched.

"Am I still talking too much?", he suddenly asked, referring to earlier that day. he had this lopsided grin on his face as he spoke. "No," I replied, my voice cracking slightly. He nodded, the grin falling away from his face. "I'm Gerard," he stopped swinging, "Who are you?"


End file.
